#bleach x reader

This is also me saying to please send me any thirsts you have about this man 💗 Seriously, he's just so smoking hot 🔥

➵ : Fem reader, Shunsui is perv, reader has boobies and a pusspuss, 18+ smuttiness not proof read........

────﹒♡﹒────

Let's be honest... truly anything would turn Shunsui on if it was with the right person. But, let's get specific! (⌯❛౪❛ก

First off... THE NAPE OF YOUR NECK ♡ Wearing your hair up is dangerous around this man. Shunsui is TALL— nearly 6' 4"— so it's extremely likely that he'll always have a nice view, staring right down the back of your shihakushō* whenever he can.

He'll trace your hairline with his eyes during meetings, staring at the way the bump of your C7 vertebra* shifts as you move your head. Heaven forbid you loosen your uniform during an especially hot day...

Bleach Masterlist:

Requests are currently open

Multi:

Interrupted part 1

Interrupted part 2

Interrupted part 3

Izuru x Shuhei angst

Bleach men twerking

Bleach men in college au headcanons

Bleach women and oral sex

Bleach men and oral sex

Izuru and Shuhei threesome

Bleach men with pregnant reader

Asking bleach men to eat it SMAU

Izuru Kira:

Birthday boy with Izuru Kira

Valentines special with Izuru

NSFW alphabet

Izuru loving you

Period cramp comfort

Lucky to have you

Husband Izuru SMAU

Therapist!reader treating Izuru

Dad Izuru

NSFW headcanons

Izuru taking care of reader with migraines

Shuhei Hisagi:

Convincing Shuhei to shave

Emails with Shuhei

Finding Shuhei's nurse magazines

Giving him a boobjob

Yoruichi Shihouin:

Dominant Yorouchi (male reader)

Face sitting

Kenpachi Zaraki:

Dad Kenpachi

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez:

College au Grimmjow

Kisuke Urahara:

Dad kisuke

Kisuke taking care of you on your birthday

Yasutora "Chad" Sado:

Chad pining for you

Dad Chad

Shunsui Kyoraku:

Dad Shunsui

After Jushiro's death

Jushiro Ukitake:

Jushiro fluff drabble

Byakuya Kuchiki:

Arranged marriage with Byakuya

Shinji Hirako:

Mean!Shinji smut

Nnoitra Gilga:

Smut drabble

You’re still putting away what feels like too much remaining of a huge sheet cake, piled high with strawberries and far too decadent mounds of cream, attempting to fit it into the apartment fridge in pieces. It’s a little after three a.m., and you’re surprised that your guests all declined staying over on your couch, but then again you’re all a little older now, and comfort and privacy - the opportunity for you and Ichigo to sleep in together in particular - are much more prized. Streamers still hang slightly from some parts of the walls, and you’re still surprised Ichigo didn’t bother to call them cheesy, nor is he removing them now. In fact, he seems partially transfixed by one in a high right corner of the living room, or perhaps the large picture of the two of you together hung next to it.

“Ichigo?”

Ichigo turns to you, face still flushed pink, with that dreamy look you’ve come to find cute when he’s the right combination of drunk and sleepy. He’s partially slumped over the counter still, exhausted by having fun for once, and you make your way over to run your hand affectionately through his hair. His eyes close, and he replies,

“What’s there to fight about?”

You laugh, not expecting such a defeatist answer. Pulling yourself onto the stool next to him, you rest against his side, still practically petting him.

“You sound like I’m bullying you into submission or something.”

He snorts, his eyes opening to gaze at you, then a smile spreads across his face.

“You love me.”

The straightforwardness of it all almost catches you off guard, and you’re warm in the face too.

“Of course I do, Ichigo.”

“Every year, you make me celebrate my birthday whether i like it or not because you love me,” he repeats. His eyes close again, and he sighs, then reaches over lazily to cup your face. “I’m lucky.”

You lean in closer, pressing your own face against the coolness of the counter. You’re eye to eye now, and you can see despite the haze of a little alcohol in his features, there’s a warm affection that keeps his gaze as sweet as melted chocolate.

“Obviously, I’m the lucky one because you were born.”

“I came after you,” he replies, softly. “I’m lucky you were already here.”

“It’s not about me, Ichigo. Let today be about you too.”

He snorts.

“Difficult as always.”

“Tell me about it," is your amused reply.

There’s another pause, and he rises, taking your face gently with him, before pressing his lips against yours. You kiss, not the first of the night, but the first unguarded one, one that lasts longer, more heartfelt, and serves as a nightcap to a wonderful night of celebrating the man you love.

“Thank you,” he says once you've pulled apart. “For taking care of me.”

“I’m only returning what you give everyone else,” you insist, but you smile into his chest. “Bedtime?”

He nods, and the hug you share lingers a little longer as he rubs your back, still filled with gratitude, satisfaction and love.

Fractures in the Void

Grimmjow x Reader x Aizen

Grimmjow never expected a human to become his problem.

But after a girl with the ability to fracture the void accidentally crossed into his world, ignoring her became impossible.

Things only got worse when Aizen began paying attention to her as well.

Caught between curiosity, obsession, and secrets that could change everything, she is forced into a game far more dangerous than she realizes

Chapter 2: The Shape of Absence

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter / masterlist / ao3

You woke up gasping, and the first thing your body did before your mind caught up was heave.

You made it half upright before you understood what was happening, one hand flying to your mouth, your stomach lurching with a violence that had nothing rational behind it, just the raw aftershock of somewhere your body had been that it was still trying to process. It passed. Barely. You sat there for a long moment with your hand pressed to your lips and your eyes watering, waiting to see if it would come back, and when it didn't you let yourself breathe again, shallow and careful, like breathing too deeply might set it off a second time.

For a moment you didn't know where you were. Your mind kept replaying the same fragments on a loop, the white corridor, the cold with no texture, and some small, stubborn part of you wanted to call it a nightmare, wanted the word to be big enough to contain it and make it something you could wake up from cleanly. You knew better. You'd known better since the moment you opened your eyes.

You looked around, trying to ground yourself in what was real. The ceiling above you was your own, the familiar water stain shaped like a rabbit that you'd been meaning to point out to your mother for two years, the soft grey light of early morning filtering through the gap in your curtains where they never quite closed all the way. Your own room. Your own bed. Your own hands, normal again, no longer dark to the elbow, resting on top of your blanket like they belonged to someone who hadn't spent the night crossing into a place with no smell and no warmth and no mercy.

Your heart was still going too fast. Sweat had gathered along your hairline, cold now against your skin, and you stared down at your own hands like they might tell you something your mind couldn't, and when they didn't, you started counting the cracks in the ceiling instead of numbers, which was new. You chose not to examine that too closely. Examining it meant admitting that counting backward from ten hadn't worked this time, that something in you had needed a different kind of anchor and had reached for one without asking your permission first.

You breathed.

In your chest, the wrongness, that old familiar hum, sat lower than usual. Quieter. Like something that had said its piece the night before and was, for the moment, satisfied to wait.

You thought about turquoise hair and turquoise eyes against a bone white corridor, beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair given everything else about him, and you thought, distantly, that it should have made him look ridiculous. It hadn't.

Grimmjow.

You said the name once in your head, testing its shape the way you might test a bruise, pressing on it lightly to see how much it hurt. It didn't hurt, not exactly. But when you let yourself whisper it out loud, barely a breath, just to hear it exist outside your own skull, something sharp lanced through your chest that told you he was more than a bruise. A bruise faded. This felt like it had roots.

You got up.

The seals were still on the dresser where you'd left them, both of them, unused, exactly as reckless this morning as they had been the night before. You looked at them for a long moment and felt something in your stomach twist, an ugly little coil of guilt you didn't examine too closely either. You'd meant to use them. You felt stupid. Genuinely, deeply stupid, the kind of stupid that sat in your chest like a stone, because it felt like you couldn't do a single thing right lately, not manage your power, not keep a promise to yourself, not even remember to pick up two small pieces of paper before falling asleep.

You dressed in your uniform with your mind somewhere else entirely, the small mechanical rituals of a morning that didn't know anything had changed, and you caught your reflection in the mirror on your way out of your room and stopped, just for a second, to actually look at yourself.

You looked normal. That was the strange part. You looked like a girl who had slept reasonably and eaten breakfast and was going to go to school and sit through six hours of nothing in particular. There was no visible mark of where you'd been. No shadow under your eyes that anyone would clock as anything other than tiredness, no darkness lingering at your fingertips, nothing to suggest that eight hours ago you had stood in a corridor in another world and talked back to something that could have ended you without changing its expression.

The overwhelming feeling in your chest hadn't faded. You were anxious, still, about what had happened and about what might happen again, some future version of last night waiting somewhere down the line, and you knew that even if you managed to put on a brave face today, you weren't entirely sure it would hold if he came back. You weren't sure anything you had would hold against him.

Your mind drifted as you moved through the kitchen for breakfast. You'd told yourself, standing at the window with cold tea in your hands and the sky just beginning to lighten, that you would use the seals from now on, every night, no exceptions. You picked them up from the dresser and put them in your skirt pocket, where you would, at least, have to look at them all day. A small penance. A promise you were making to a version of yourself twelve hours in the future, one you hoped would be less exhausted than the one making it.

You looked at yourself in the mirror once more before you left. You almost wished there was a mark. Something visible. Something that would let another person look at you and understand your struggles without you having to find the words, because you already knew, standing there with your tie half done, that you weren't going to find the words. Not today. Maybe not for a while.

You finished your bow tie. The note on the fridge, held by a magnet shaped like a strawberry that had been there since you were nine, was written in your mother's quick, slanted hand. Toast in the bread bin, don't forget your lunch, love you. You read it twice before you managed to feel anything about it at all, and even then what you felt was small and distant, like the words were reaching you through water.

You ate half a piece of toast standing up at the counter, because your stomach didn't want the other half, and you left for school with the barrier seals sitting like a small weight against your hip and the memory of turquoise eyes sitting like a much larger one somewhere underneath that.

***

The walk to school was ordinary in a way that felt almost cruel.

The same corner shop with the same tabby cat sunning itself on the step. The same group of first years racing each other to the crossing, backpacks bouncing, one of them losing a shoe and having to hop back for it while the others laughed without waiting for her. The same smell of the bakery two streets from the school gates, warm bread and something like cinnamon, that on any other morning would have made you feel something close to contentment.

Today it just felt like static. Like the world was playing a recording of itself and you were the only one who'd noticed the loop.

You kept your hands in your skirt pockets, one curled loosely around the barrier seals, and you walked the familiar route with your head down more than usual, replaying the corridor without meaning to. The white light with no source. The cold that had no texture you could compare to anything you'd felt before. The way he'd said you're not scared and you'd said I'm scared, I'm managing it, and the way something in his face had shifted at that, small, involuntary, like he hadn't expected the honesty and hadn't known what to do with it now that he had it.

Someone has been watching the Karakura signatures for a long time. And your name came up.

You were confused and, if you were honest with yourself, quite scared. You'd spent half the morning not knowing what that sentence meant, turning it over and over the way you turned over anything that frightened you, looking for an edge you could get a grip on, and you hadn't found one. Just the sentence, sitting in your chest, radiating a low grade dread that hadn't faded even as the morning wore on and the world around you insisted on its own normalcy.

You reached the school gates without really registering the walk at all.

Class was the same performance it always was, except that you weren't really in it.

You sat in your usual seat, two rows back from the window, and you took notes in a hand that was legible enough to pass for present, and none of it landed anywhere. The teacher's voice was a texture rather than a meaning. The scratch of pens around you, the occasional laugh from the back row, the particular quality of morning light through the classroom windows, all of it happened at a slight remove, like you were watching the day through glass. It felt, at moments, as if someone else had taken the wheel of your body and you were simply riding along behind your own eyes, watching everything unfold from a seat you hadn't chosen. You had expected, somewhere in the quiet optimism you still had left, that the day would get easier as it went on. It didn't. If anything, the opposite happened, each hour adding its own small weight until the whole day felt like something you were carrying rather than living through.

You looked forward, toward Ichigo.

He sat two seats over, slouched in his chair with his chin propped on one fist, staring out the window with an expression that had become familiar to you over the last few weeks, distant and heavy and turned inward toward something he wasn't sharing. You watched him for a moment, the line of his jaw, the tension that lived permanently now in his shoulders, and you thought, not for the first time, that you were both carrying something and neither of you had figured out how to put it down in front of the other.

You didn't say anything to him. He didn't say anything to you.

That, too, felt like the loop repeating.

You knew something was weighing him down. You knew it the way you knew most things about him, without needing to be told, because at some point before all of this started to shift between you, you had understood him better than you understood yourself. You wished, sitting there watching the side of his face, that you could just talk to him properly, that he would let his burdens spill out for once and that you could do the same in return, that the two of you could sit in the wreckage of whatever this was together instead of each carrying your own half of it in silence.

Ichigo had always been so dear to you. So close to the center of things that for years you'd thought of the two of you as different sides of the same coin, the same at the core but shaped differently by the same pressures. You knew he didn't want to burden anyone, that he held everything close to his chest, the guilt over his mother, all of it, because some part of him had decided a long time ago that carrying it alone was the price of protecting the people around him from having to carry it too.

You were the same, in that respect. You kept things close too. But the difference, you thought, the real difference, was that you wanted someone to share the weight with. You weren't as brave as Ichigo, or at least you didn't think you were. You couldn't hold all of this on your own, not really, it was wearing you down in ways you were only beginning to recognize, and you suspected, without knowing for certain, that it was wearing him down too. And yet, somehow, despite wanting it so badly, you couldn't bring yourself to reach for the one thing that might have helped. You needed someone but you were simply too frightened to go and find them.

***

By lunch you had managed, mostly, to arrange your face into something that passed for normal. You'd had practice at this. Years of it, actually, long before any of this started, long before dimensional membranes and voids at your fingertips had become things you needed to manage, you'd been perfecting the specific art of looking fine when you weren't, and it turned out that skill transferred well. You sat under the tree with Orihime and Tatsuki and two of the other girls from your homeroom, the four of them mid conversation about a drama that had aired the night before, something involving a love triangle and a misunderstanding that could apparently have been resolved in one honest sentence if any of the characters involved had been capable of speaking plainly. You listened with half your attention and ate your lunch mechanically, and for the first twenty minutes you thought you'd gotten away with it.

Then Orihime looked at you.

Not a long look. Not obvious enough that Tatsuki or the others would have noticed anything, because Orihime had a gift for that too, for watching you carefully without making a show of it, but you felt the weight of it land and you knew, immediately, that she'd clocked something.

"You're quiet today," she said, keeping her voice light, keeping it folded into the conversation so it didn't stand out as its own separate thing.

"Just tired," you said. "Didn't sleep well."

"Bad dreams?"

Her hand came to rest on yours, where it sat folded over your knee, warm and light and asking nothing of you beyond permission to stay there. You looked at her. Something in her face was gentle and searching at the same time, the particular combination that only Orihime managed, care without pressure, curiosity without demand.

"Something like that," you said.

Tatsuki glanced over from the other side of the group, her expression sharpening slightly, the way it did whenever she sensed something worth paying attention to. "You do look a bit off," she said. "Pale. You feeling sick?"

"I'm fine," you said, and you gave her a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, though it was convincing enough not to register as a fake one. You heard how automatic it sounded even as you said it, the reflexive smoothing over that you did without thinking, the same one you'd used on Ichigo and on Urahara and on your own mother more times than you could count. "Just didn't sleep much. I'll be fine by tomorrow."

Tatsuki held your gaze a beat longer than was comfortable, and you thought, for one suspended second, that she might push. Tatsuki was not someone who let things go easily, not when it came to people she cared about, and you had seen her corner Ichigo more than once with the same blunt insistence, refusing to accept a deflection as an answer.

But then one of the other girls said something about the drama, some new piece of gossip, and Tatsuki's attention slid sideways. You guessed, watching her let it go, that she hadn't wanted to make you uncomfortable in front of the others, that her restraint was its own kind of kindness, and the moment passed. However, Orihime didn't let it pass, not entirely. She didn't say anything else out loud, not there, not with an audience, but you felt her attention stay on you for the rest of lunch in a way that was different from before, quieter, more careful, the attention of someone filing something away to return to later when there weren't other people around to overhear it. Her hand tightened briefly around yours before she let go, a small pressure that felt like a promise you hadn't asked for and didn't know how to accept.

You were grateful for her restraint and guilty about needing it in the same breath. She deserved to know. You knew that. You'd known it since October, since the wrongness had first started building in your chest with a specificity that pointed at Ichigo, and you still hadn't told her, and now there was more to not tell, more weight added to the pile of things you were carrying alone because some old reflex in you still believed that the kindest thing you could do for the people you loved was to spare them the shape of what you were feeling.

You ate the rest of your lunch. You laughed at the right places in the conversation. You did not tell her about the corridor.

***

By the end of the day, Ichigo was waiting for you at the gate, which had become something of a habit over the past year, an unspoken arrangement neither of you had ever formally made but that had settled into place the way most good things between you had, without ceremony, just a slow accumulation of him being there and you falling into step beside him and the two of you walking most of the way home together before splitting off toward your separate houses.

Today he was leaning against the gate post with his hands in his pockets and his school bag slung over one shoulder, and when he saw you he pushed off the post and fell into step without a word, which was also normal, also part of the arrangement.

You walked for a while in a silence that wasn't uncomfortable exactly, but wasn't quite the easy silence of before either. You were aware, the whole time, of the things you weren't saying, and you assumed, in the specific way you always assumed things about the people closest to you, that he could feel the same weight sitting between you that you could.

"You've been quiet," he said eventually, not looking at you, his eyes fixed somewhere ahead on the pavement.

"So have you," you said.

He huffed something that wasn't quite a laugh. "Fair."

You wanted, badly, in that moment, to say something. To open your mouth and let some piece of it out, the corridor, the cold, the fact that you were frightened in a way you didn't have words for yet, and that you needed, more than almost anything, for someone to ask if you were okay and then actually wait for the real answer. You needed it so desperately, especially from him, especially from the person who had known you longest.

You didn't say it.

You told yourself, the way you always told yourself, that he had enough to carry. That whatever was happening with Rukia, and the shifting weight of his own reiatsu, and the disappearing at odd hours, was taking up all the room he had, and that adding your own fear to it wouldn't help either of you. It would just be one more thing pressing down on both of you instead of one. He didn't need your worries dragging him further under. He had enough of his own.

You told yourself that and you almost believed it.

The silence stretched between you, and at one point it grew uncomfortable enough that your eyes drifted toward him again and again, desperately hoping he would say something, anything, just to fill the space, however, It never came.

You were three streets from your house, close to the corner where the arrangement usually ended, where he'd say something like see you tomorrow and peel off toward his own house and you'd continue on alone, when a small dark shape dropped from somewhere above you both, landing lightly on the pavement a few feet ahead.

Rukia.

She had a way of appearing that still, weeks later, made something in your chest go very still and alert, an economy of movement that read as controlled in a way that had nothing to do with being human. She straightened, brushed something invisible from her sleeve, and looked at Ichigo with an expression that communicated, without a single word being said, that something had happened and that he needed to come with her right now.

Ichigo's whole posture changed. You watched it happen in real time, the way his shoulders came up, the way his jaw set, the way whatever had been present in his face a second ago, tired and distant but at least present, at least there with you, dropped away entirely and was replaced by something focused and elsewhere.

"Sorry," he said, already half turning away from you, an apologetic look overtaking the neutral one that had been there a moment before. "I have to go."

"Okay," you said.

He hesitated, just for a second, something flickering across his face that might have been guilt, might have been the beginning of an apology that needed more than one word, and then Rukia said something low and urgent that you didn't catch, and whatever had been about to surface in him got swallowed by it.

"I'll make it up to you," he said, already moving. "I promise."

Rukia looked at you as they turned to go, and there was something genuinely apologetic in her expression, a small, kind, almost embarrassed smile, the kind that told you she understood exactly what she was interrupting and felt bad about it and was going to do it anyway because the thing pulling her away mattered more. You found yourself wondering, in the wake of them, whether Ichigo had told her about you. Whether he told her the things that worried him, the things he never told you but that you always managed to piece together anyway, without needing him to say a word.

You didn't dislike her for it. That was the strange, complicated truth of it. You didn't have it in you to resent someone for doing what needed doing, even when what needed doing was taking your best friend away from you again, for the fourth time that week, without explanation, without so much as a real goodbye. You simply didn't have hatred in you, not for her, not really for anyone. You disliked being on bad terms with people, thought it unnecessary in most cases, and you always tried, out of some old habit you'd never questioned, to get along with everyone you met. Rukia was kind. Rukia was sweet. Everyone seemed drawn to her in some way, and you couldn't summon the will to be the exception.

You stood on the corner and watched them go, your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag, and you watched Ichigo's back grow smaller down the street, watched him not look back even once, and you felt something in your chest fold in on itself very quietly.

You didn't cry. You want that understood, if only by yourself. You didn't cry, standing there on the corner in the fading afternoon light, you just stood very still for a moment and let the feeling move through you, the specific ache of being left, of being the thing set aside so that something more urgent could be attended to.

You started walking.

"I don't need him," you said out loud, to no one, to the empty pavement, to the houses with their lit windows and their ordinary evenings happening behind them. "I don't need him to walk me home."

Your eyes stung, the heat behind them building for a moment before you willed it back down. You knew you were being childish, or told yourself you were, though it didn't change how much it hurt, the plain and simple fact of how easily he'd left, even knowing, rationally, that he was probably tending to something more important than walking you home. You just wished, quietly, humiliatingly, that he would choose you. Just once. That he would show you how much you mattered to him the way you'd spent years showing him, and that he would notice your pain and your fear without you having to say a single word about it.

You said it again a block later, quieter. "I don't need him."

You said it a third time near your own street, and by then you weren't sure who you were trying to convince, because it wasn't really about needing him to walk you home. It was never about that. It was about wanting him to notice. Wanting him to look at you the way he used to, all the way, not with half his attention already somewhere else, and ask you the question you'd been waiting weeks for someone to ask.

What's wrong with you.

Three words. That was all it would have taken. You would have told him everything, you thought, if he'd just asked, if he'd just looked at you the way you'd learned to look at him, reading the things underneath the things that got said, and reached for what was sitting there instead of walking past it.

He didn't ask. He hadn't asked in weeks.

What's wrong with you, you asked yourself instead, and the answer that rose up felt raw and unkind. You were weak. You were desperate for something as small as a question, and it was almost humiliating to admit how much you wanted it.

You walked the rest of the way alone, and the space beside you where he usually walked felt larger than it should have, an absence with a specific shape, and you thought about Orihime's quiet gentle attention at lunch, and Chad's steady presence in the mornings, and even, distantly, Rukia's apologetic smile, and you thought, with a clarity that surprised you, that you needed all of them. Not just Orihime. Not just Chad, not just Rukia's kindness at a distance. All of them, together, each one occupying a different room in you that no one else could fill. And the room that needed filling most tonight, you realized, standing there in the deepening dark, was Ichigo's, a room that had been empty for so long now you'd nearly forgotten what it felt like when it was full.

If Ichigo left, you would be sad in a particular Ichigo shaped way, the oldest, deepest kind, the kind that came from a decade of him being the fixed point you oriented everything else around.

If Orihime left, you would be sad in a particular Orihime shaped way.

If Chad left, if Tatsuki left, if any one of them stepped out of the shape of your life, there would be a hole exactly the size of them, and you understood, standing at your own front gate with your key already in your hand, that this was maybe the actual root of tonight's ache. Not that Ichigo had left. That you were so frightened of all of them leaving, one by one, into whatever this was becoming, that the smallest instance of it happening felt like a preview of the whole thing.

You let yourself in. Your mother wasn't home yet. You didn't linger on that. You changed out of your uniform, put the barrier seals in your bag where you'd remember them, and left for the shop with a heaviness in your chest that hadn't been there that morning.

Urahara's shop looked the same as it always did, the dim lantern light, the specific mineral smell of the training space below, Tessai's steady unhurried presence moving through the back room with his clipboard already in hand.

Today, though, something in you had run out.

You didn't have the words for it as it was happening, only the feeling, a kind of static exhaustion sitting over everything, and when Urahara asked you to stand in the circle and find the anxious feeling that opened the void, you did it, and the darkness came slower than it usually did, and thinner, and you knew, even as it gathered at your fingertips, that you weren't managing it the way you were supposed to be managing it. You were just letting it happen.

"Focus on the edges," Urahara said, his voice carrying that familiar patient calm that today, for reasons you couldn't entirely justify, grated against you instead of steadying you. "You're letting it drift. Bring it back toward the center."

"I know," you said.

"Then do it."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

You were already drowning in your own misery, in the accumulated weight of a day that had asked more of you than you had left to give, and some small, ugly voice in your head kept circling the same unfair thought, that you had never asked for any of this, that if only you were normal, if only you could simply fit in the way everyone else seemed to, if only every single person could just leave you alone for one evening, maybe you could breathe. And finally, as your chest burned with a sharp pain you'd been trying to push away again and again, something in you snapped, quiet and sudden, the way a thread gives after being pulled taut for too long without anyone noticing the fraying.

"You don't understand," you said, and your voice came out sharper than you meant it to, sharper than you'd ever spoken to him before. "You keep saying it like it's simple. Bring it back to the center. Focus on the edges. Like it's a dial I can just turn."

Urahara's expression shifted, the lazy performance of his usual manner falling away into something more careful, more attentive. "It isn't simple," he said. "I never said it was."

"You act like it is." The words were coming faster now, propelled by something that had been building since the corner, since Rukia's small apologetic smile, since Ichigo's retreating back, since the corridor, since all of it, stacked on top of each other until there was no room left to hold it quietly. "You stand there with your fan and your calm voice and you tell me to bring it back to center like there's some obvious center to bring it to, but there isn't, there's just this thing in me that does whatever it wants whenever it wants and I'm supposed to just, what, negotiate with it?"

"That's closer to accurate than you might think," Urahara said, carefully, the way someone speaks when they can see a person standing at the edge of something and don't want to startle them further.

"It's not the same for you," you said. "None of this is the same for you. You understand this world, you understand the membrane, you understand what I am, and I don't, I just feel it, I just have to sit inside it and hope I don't lose control of it while everyone around me talks about it like it's a science project."

"I don't think of it that way."

"You act like it."

The void at your fingertips had grown without your noticing, a thin unsteady thread of it curling at the edge of your hand, and Urahara's eyes flicked to it and back to your face, and something in his own expression tightened, though his voice stayed level.

"You're upset," he said. "That's making this harder. Let's stop for today and come back to it when-"

"I'm always upset," you said, and the words came out with more heat than you'd intended, more honesty than you'd meant to give away. "That's the problem. I'm upset and no one asks why, they just tell me to breathe through it, to count backward, to bring it back to center, and I'm so tired of managing it by myself while everyone stands around watching."

Urahara was quiet for a moment. Tessai, at the edge of the room, had gone very still, his clipboard lowered, watching you with an expression you couldn't read.

Guilt hit you almost immediately, unwelcome and fast, because you knew none of this was their fault, knew you were simply sad and tired and frayed at every edge, but knowing it didn't stop the words from coming, and some part of you needed to let it out even as another part of you was already flinching from the damage.

"I'm not asking you to manage it alone," Urahara said finally, gently, the performance entirely gone now, just a tired looking man in a striped hat with something genuinely careful in his face. "That's why you're here."

"It doesn't feel like that," you said. "It feels like I come here just for you to study me and give me instructions that i dont understand."

"That's not fair," Tessai said quietly, the first thing he'd said in the whole exchange, and something in his tone, not harsh, just factual, made you feel a flash of shame that you didn't have room for on top of everything else.

"Maybe it's not," you said, and your voice cracked slightly on the last word, and you hated that it cracked, hated that after everything you'd managed to hold together all day, it was going to come apart here, in front of them, over something as small as being told to focus. "I don't care. I need to go home."

Guilt and shame had finally caught up with you fully, sitting heavy and immediate in your chest, but by then you were already moving.

"Wait," Urahara said, and there was something in his voice, some genuine concern breaking through the calm, but you were already turning toward the stairs, the void at your fingertips collapsing as your concentration broke, leaving your hands shaking and ordinary again.

"I'll be fine," you said, without turning around. "I just need to go home."

You climbed the stairs and walked out through the shop and into the evening without waiting to see if either of them followed, and neither of them did, which you were grateful for and resentful of in the same breath, an unreasonable, exhausted, contradictory feeling that you didn't have the energy to untangle.

The walk home was different from the walk there.

The sun had gone down properly while you were underground, and the street lamps had come on, throwing pools of orange light along the pavement with dark gaps between them, and you found yourself walking faster than you needed to, your school bag strap gripped tight in one hand, the barrier seals a small hard shape against your palm where you'd taken to holding them without quite deciding to.

The atmosphere had changed. You noticed it the same way you noticed everything, as a pressure rather than a fact, a low grade wrongness sitting at the edge of your senses that made the back of your neck prickle. The street was quiet, which made sense at this hour, most people asleep or settling in for the night, but it didn't feel empty so much as hushed, the ordinary daytime noise stripped away and replaced with something more attentive.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were tired, upset, and your senses were unreliable when you were this strung out, that the wrongness you were feeling was just your own exhaustion reflected back at you. A hot, prickling embarrassment crept in alongside the fear, the specific paranoia of feeling watched and judged at once, as though the whole street had seen you snap at Urahara and was quietly cataloguing every poor decision you'd made that day. You didn't believe your own reassurances, not truly, not for a second.

You kept glancing over your shoulder, at gaps between houses, at the mouths of side streets you passed, and each time there was nothing there, just shadow and stillness, and each time the not finding anything made the feeling worse instead of better, because it meant that whatever you were sensing wasn't something you could locate and rule out. It was just there, everywhere, nowhere, watching from an angle you couldn't turn fast enough to catch.

You hated it. You hated the whole day, actually, standing there under a street lamp halfway home with your chest tight and your hands cold. You hated snapping at Urahara, you hated Ichigo's retreating back, you hated Rukia's kind apologetic smile that you couldn't even resent properly, you hated the feeling of being different from all of them, from Orihime with her steady warmth and Ichigo with his straightforward fury and even Urahara with his easy authority over a world you were still drowning in.

You were odd. You'd always known that, in the low grade way you knew most things about yourself, but tonight it felt sharper, more specific, a wrongness that set you apart not just from your human friends but from the people who were supposed to understand what you were. Urahara didn't feel what you felt. He studied it. He had theories about it, careful patient theories that came from the outside, and you were the only one standing on the inside of it, and the loneliness of that hit you harder walking home in the dark than it had all day.

You just wanted, for one single day, to not be the only one carrying something that no one else could touch.

You reached your house and stood at the gate for a long moment before going in. You needed a minute to arrange your face into something presentable before facing whoever was waiting inside. Maybe your mother would greet you with a warm smile, your father half watching the television after a long day, maybe some small ordinary time with your parents was exactly what you needed to feel steadier. But when you opened the door, no one was waiting inside.

The house was dark except for the kitchen light your mother had left on, and there was a note on the counter next to a covered plate, her handwriting quick and familiar. Kept your dinner warm, your dad and I are off on a date, don't wait up, love you. You read it and felt something complicated, a tangle of desperation and loneliness that had been becoming familiar this week, and you ate standing at the counter without really tasting any of it.

You went upstairs. You changed out of your clothes into something soft and worn, the comfort clothes you reached for on bad days, and you sat on the edge of your bed for a long moment with your hands resting loose in your lap, looking at nothing.

The feeling of being watched hadn't left you. If anything it had followed you inside, settling over your room the way it had settled over the street, a low persistent pressure that made your skin feel too aware of itself. You told yourself, again, that it was exhaustion. That your senses were unreliable tonight. That there was nothing in your room except your own furniture and your own tiredness and your own overactive imagination running wild on the back of a bad day.

You thought about Ichigo. About the way he used to look at you before all of this started, fully, without half his attention already elsewhere, and about how much you missed being looked at like that. You thought about the fact that he was your closest friend, had been for a decade, and that lately it felt like he was walking somewhere you couldn't follow and hadn't once looked back to see if you were still there.

Your back touched the mattress and you put your arm over your eyes. And then, unbidden, the corridor came back to you. The white light with no source. The cold with no texture. The way his reiatsu had pressed against you like heat from something that burned wrong, and the way you hadn't stepped back, and the way something in his expression had shifted when he'd realized that.

Sharp blue eyes, you thought. Reading me like I was something written down.

You removed your arm. You reached over to your bedside table where you'd finally set the barrier seals down properly, both of them, and you activated them the way Urahara had shown you, pressing your fingers to the notation and feeling the small warm pulse of spiritual energy settle into place around your room.

"I won't see him again," you said, quiet, to the empty room, and you felt a flicker of hope as you said it, though you weren't certain how much truth the sentence actually held. You felt the shakiness of it even as the words left your mouth, some low current running underneath them that knew better, but you said it anyway, because saying it felt like the only thing you had left to offer yourself that night, and you closed your eyes, and eventually, despite everything, you slept.

***

You woke up sometime in the deep middle of the night with your stomach turning over and a dull ache pressing behind your temple, sharp enough that for a moment you thought you might actually be sick. You lay very still, breathing through it, your heart already beating too fast for no reason you could identify, and your first thought, sluggish and half formed through sleep, was to check the seals. You turned your head and found them exactly where you'd left them, both still glowing faintly with that low warm pulse, both apparently intact. You pulled your legs closer to your chest, curling in on yourself, trying to make the pain in your head into something smaller, something more bearable.

 What is going on?

Sweat had gathered at your temple and along your collarbone, and your heart was going hard enough that if someone had walked in and taken your pulse they'd have assumed you'd been running. You placed a hand flat against your chest, eyes downcast, and made yourself breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth, slow and deliberate, the way you'd taught yourself to do years before any of this started. It took longer than usual to settle. When you finally opened your eyes and looked around the dark room, nothing seemed out of place. Your desk was where it always was. Your curtains hung the way they always hung, that thin gap of grey night visible between them. Nothing had moved.

Maybe it was just a nightmare, you thought. One I don't remember. That would explain the racing heart, the sweat, the nausea sitting low and uneasy in your stomach.

You got up anyway, regretting it almost immediately, missing the warmth and safety of your bed the second your feet met the cold floor, and you walked toward the bathroom with your arms wrapped loosely around yourself, and it was there, in the dim light before you'd flipped the switch, that you noticed your hands.

They ached. A dull persistent throb you hadn't registered until you actually looked at them, and when you held them up in the low light from the hall, you saw it, the faint darkness gathered at your fingertips, not fully formed, not a void, just a residue of one, like something had been building and hadn't finished.

Regret hit you fast and cold. You shouldn't have acted so foolishly, so childishly, with Urahara that afternoon. You should have told him about the corridor. You should have told him everything, not just the parts that were easy to say, the parts about the man with the beautiful eyes and the fear he'd put in you, and now you were left with the consequences of your own choices, here, at some hour past midnight, with your chest tight and your hands aching and no one to ask what any of it meant.

Were you going to die? Was this it for you?

Your breathing sped up again. You flipped the bathroom light on with a hand that wasn't quite steady, and in the sudden brightness your eyes played tricks on you, shapes seeming to shift at the edges of the mirror, in the corners near the shower curtain, gone the instant the light fully settled. You let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh, amused despite yourself at your own fear, at the specific silliness of being frightened by shadows in your own bathroom.

You splashed cold water on your face, washing away the sweat, and you stood there for a long moment looking at your own reflection, pale, tired, eyes a little too wide, before you turned the light back off and made your way back toward your room, more settled now, or at least telling yourself you were. You looked around the familiar space, letting yourself register that you were home, that you were safe, that nobody could reach you here.

But with the panic finally receding, your hearing sharpened, the way it always did once your heartbeat stopped drowning everything else out, and it was in that quieter space that you heard it.

Breathing. Not your own.

You froze in the doorway of your room, every part of you going very still, your attention snapping toward the sound, which was coming, unmistakably, from the direction of your closet.

Every comforting word you'd told yourself vanished the moment it had formed.

For one absurd, suspended second you felt like a little girl again, seven years old, small and frightened in the dark, wanting to call for your father the way you used to when the shadows in your room felt like they had shape and intention, wanting him to check under the bed and behind the curtains and tell you there was nothing there. But you were not seven, and your father was not going to be able to save you from whatever this was, and some part of you understood that with a clarity that made the fear worse rather than better.

Your throat had gone tight. Your fingers felt numb at the tips, the same numbness that came just before the darkness gathered there, and you thought, distantly, that you should run, that you should call out, that you should do anything other than what you found yourself doing, which was walking toward the source of the sound, toward the closet, with slow, careful steps, as though moving quietly might somehow undo what you were hearing.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself that if you looked and saw nothing, you could go back to bed and this would just become another strange, unexplained hour in a week that had been full of them.

You reached out with shaking hands and slid the plain white closet door aside.

What you saw stopped your breath entirely.

A tear. Not the thin, unstable kind you'd learned to make in Urahara's training space, the kind that wavered and wanted to close the moment you stopped concentrating. This one was larger, steadier, its edges holding themselves open with a kind of patience that felt deliberate, and it radiated a cold that reached out into your room and touched your skin even from several feet away. It looked less like a wound in the air and more like a door. Something built rather than torn.

You felt an undeniable pull toward it, an answering hum in your own chest, and your hand rose almost without your permission, reaching toward it, curious despite everything, before it withdrew sharply as you saw what was coming through.

Hands appeared first, one on either side of the opening, gripping the edges of it the way a person grips a doorframe. Then a leg, white fabric, loose around the ankle. And that was the moment you knew, with a sick lurch of certainty, exactly who this was going to be before he was even fully through. Your legs went weak beneath you, your hands, which had been steady for the length of your walk to the bathroom and back, began to shake again, and you felt yourself coming apart, mentally and physically, just from the thought of who you suspected was standing on the other side of that tear.

You stepped backward. You didn't decide to. Your body simply did it, retreating even as the rest of him emerged, broad shoulders, that same white jacket hanging open, and then his head came up and his hair fell back from his face and you saw him properly for the first time outside of that corridor, and the cold smirk he wore made something in your chest drop straight down into your stomach.

"So this is the human world," he said, and his voice, low and flat, carried none of the restraint it had held in the corridor, none of the careful assessment. This was something else. Something hungrier.

You kept moving backward until your legs hit the edge of your bed,  there was nowhere left to go, and he crossed the space between you faster than your eyes could properly track and you were on your back with the breath knocked out of you before you'd even understood you were falling.

One of his hands closed around both your wrists, pinning them above your head with a grip that felt like it could have snapped bone without any real effort. His knees bracketed your hips, his weight settling over you in a way that made every part of you go rigid with a fear so total it felt almost calm, the strange flat calm of a body that has run out of other options. Instinct overtook every part of you before thought could catch up, and your first and only response was to open your mouth and scream.

You opened your mouth to scream.

His free hand came down over it before any sound escaped, fast, absolute, and his eyes, when you finally managed to focus on them through the panic, were fixed on your face with an intensity that had nothing gentle in it at all.

"You're being too loud," he said, something mocking in it, though you hadn't managed to get out any sound at all before he'd silenced you. "Try that again and I'll kill you."

You went still beneath his hand, your breath coming in short, useless bursts through your nose, your eyes wide and fixed on his face, and he looked away from you for a moment, scanning your room with an expression of open disdain, as though the very existence of your bed and your desk and your school bag offended him personally. You felt, absurdly, a flicker of indignation underneath the terror, because your room was clean, was tidy, was nothing to sneer at, and some small ridiculous part of you wanted to say so.

You tried, in some small desperate way, to talk yourself into putting distance between the two of you, to find any inch of space between your body and this man, or should you call him something else, monster, beast, you weren't sure yet what to name what he was. You tried to buck him off. It did nothing. You tried to twist your wrists free of his grip. It did nothing. He watched you struggle with something that might have been amusement, if amusement could look that cold, his mouth curling at one corner in a way that made your stomach turn. Eventually you stopped, a strange stillness settling over you, exhaustion and fear collapsing together into something that no longer had the strength to fight.

You held eye contact with him as best you could, his sharp gaze never leaving your face. You felt like he was looking straight through you, studying you for reasons you couldn't guess at, his expression carrying something almost judgmental, the way someone looks at a thing they consider far beneath them, in the corridor he had felt calmer somehow, more controlled, terrifying still but to a smaller degree.

You followed his eyes as they drifted downward, from your face to your throat, and stopped.

The necklace. The small star that you wore every day tucked beneath your shirt, the one your parents had given you when you were young, a family heirloom passed down through generations on your mother's side, a good luck charm that had never once, until now, felt like it was failing so completely at its one job.

You tensed as his hand left your mouth and moved to it instead, fingers closing around the small pendant with a care that felt entirely wrong coming from him, incongruous against everything else he'd just done, and for one strange suspended second neither of you moved, his attention entirely on the star resting against his fingers, yours entirely on the fact that his hand was no longer covering your mouth and you hadn't yet decided whether to use the opening. Your skin crawled, every hair on your body standing on end, some tangled mixture of terror and confusion pinning your voice in your throat as surely as his hand had a moment before.

Then he let it go. He released your wrists at the same moment, sitting back slightly, and the cold smirk returned to his face in full.

"Fight me," he said.

You stared at him, chest heaving, your wrists throbbing where his grip had been, confusion rising in you again, sharper than before. "What?"

"I wanna see what that thing can do."

"I'm not fighting you," you said, your voice shaking despite your best effort to steady it. You weren't a fighter, not now, maybe not ever, and you didn't want to hurt anyone, even someone who was frightening you this badly. You wouldn't raise a hand against him without a reason that felt undeniable, though even as you thought it, some quiet, practical part of you understood that you wouldn't stand a chance against him regardless.

"Why not."

"Because you'll kill me."

"If I wanted you dead," he said, flat, matter of fact, the way someone states a simple truth they've never had reason to doubt, "you'd already be dead."

You didn't answer that. There wasn't an answer to give.

"So stop talking," he said, watching you the way something watches prey it hasn't yet decided whether to bother chasing.

Gathering what breath and courage you had left, you pushed yourself up off the bed on shaking arms, putting distance between the two of you the moment his weight lifted, and you stood facing him with your back nearly against your desk, your heart still slamming against your ribs. He watched you the whole time, arms loose at his sides, that smirk never fully leaving his face, and you understood, with a clarity that made you feel sick, that he was enjoying this. Your fear. Your uncertainty. The specific helplessness of standing in your own room facing something you had no ability to fight.

"Just leave me alone," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word.

He said nothing. He simply waited, watching you with an expression that made it clear he had no intention of leaving until he'd gotten what he came for, and something in you, some final thread of exhausted defiance, decided that if this was happening regardless of what you wanted, you would at least try.

You hesitantly lifted your arm. Your fist closed tight enough that your knuckles went white, and you swung at him with everything you had, aiming for his jaw, and he caught your wrist mid air without appearing to move faster than a walk.

The twist that followed was fast, precise, and agonizing. You heard the crack before you fully registered the pain, a sharp, sickening sound that seemed to come from somewhere outside your own body, and then the pain arrived all at once, a white hot wave that dropped you to your knees on the floor with your wrist cradled against your chest, tears springing to your eyes before you could stop them.

"Don't offend me," he said, something almost bored in his tone, as though your attempt hadn't even registered as a real threat worth acknowledging. He shoved you the rest of the way down and you landed hard on the floor, your broken wrist held tight against your body, sobs building in your throat that you couldn't fully suppress.

You watched him from the floor as he crouched closer, and his hand came down into your hair, fisting it, pulling your head up so you had no choice but to look at him. Tears ran freely down your face now, hot and humiliating, and the pain in your wrist pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but you didn't let yourself look away from him, some last stubborn piece of you refusing to give him that.

"You are weak," he said, and there was nothing warm in his voice at all, nothing that resembled comfort or even simple cruelty for its own sake. Just an assessment, cold and clean. "But I see potential in you."

You said nothing. You couldn't have, even if you'd wanted to, your throat too tight around the sobs you were fighting to hold in. He'd wanted a fight and you'd tried, in your own small, doomed way, to give him one, and you found yourself wondering, dimly, through the pain, what more he could possibly want from you now.

"You'll get stronger," he said, "and then, we'll fight."

He looked at you, waiting, and you understood, somewhere underneath the pain and the fear, that he wasn't actually asking your permission, that this was a statement rather than a question, but he wanted the nod anyway, wanted the small confirmation of it even though your agreement changed nothing about what was going to happen.

You nodded. It was the only thing you had left to give him.

He released your hair, and your head dropped, and he straightened and turned his back on you without another word, walking back toward the tear that had brought him here, the cold radiating from it seeming to reach out and pull him back through it the moment he stepped close enough.

You felt the stability of it give way behind him, felt the specific pressure of another presence leave your room, and then you were alone, kneeling on your own floor with your wrist broken and swelling and your face wet with tears you hadn't given yourself permission to cry until he was gone.

You stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard, the ache in your wrist a steady, insistent thing that made it difficult to think about anything else, and beneath the pain, beneath the fear, something else was building, slow and hot and entirely new.

You had never felt anger like this before. Not the low simmer you carried most days, not the sharp flash you'd felt with Urahara that afternoon, something larger, something that sat in your chest like a coal catching properly for the first time.

Feeling both very nostalgic and hyped for the Bleach anime, so I would adore writing for Bleach x Reader requests <3

Fluff or smut, ask away!

~ BLEACH LINKS

pls don’t read this if you don’t like porn links know that the characters are up to age meaning they are either adults or teen ages 18-19 and in order for links to work you have to be signed in or twitter if a video no longer works it must have been taken down

~ ICHIGO KUROSAKI

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~ KISUKE URAHARA

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~ RENJI ABARAI

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~ KENPACHI ZARAKI

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~ AIZEN SOSUKE

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~ GRIMMJOW JEAGERJAQUEZ

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~ SHUNSUI KYŌRAKU

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~ BYAKUYA KUCHIKI

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Summary: cuddling headcanons mixed with some sleeping habits for them~~. Pretty straightforward, huh? ^^

Contains: Starrk, Ulquiorra, Nnoitra, Grimmjow, Szayelaporro (+bonus!)

Warnings: self-indulgent (duuuh) and suggestive (?) in some parts..... lots of cozy vibes tho <3 it's probably only part 1, I had fun writing this! And fem reader :3.